Tom Moses

He gathers all his friends in a single place.  He thinks he has me grasping at straws, he thinks I believe Randy and Ricky are capable of all this on their own.  The revenge story is a tired plot, I’ve heard it at least a dozen and recited it on my own at least twice before I was twenty, the son of a bitch has no idea who he’s toying with.

The fucker’s guards go down easy; they’re not even worth a third bullet to make sure.  Guns aren’t very satisfying; a million assholes can squeeze a trigger, some of those assholes actually know what they’re doing.  Fists and blades are what I’m looking for, but I’m not an idiot. All these sons of bitches will be packing at least a nine mil. or even a forty-five. read more »

“…have been burning well into the morning.  The third such fire erupting since the predawn hours, we are still waiting word from Global Securities chairman Marc Spector, but to this hour no one has been able to reach Marc Spector.”

There hasn’t been anything new in the news since before I can remember.  Just a load of heartless hate mongers with their own agendas to push down peoples’ throats.  I wanted to relax for a Saturday, take a load off, rest up and plan my next move; but the phone will probably start ringing in the next few minutes and I’ll have to find something to say to the Press.

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Flames lick my skin; singe the hair at my legs.  I walk through the fire and yet I feel no pain.  I look all around as would a curious child, everything seems so upside down.  It’s like a fever dream, the floor is above me, yet I walk upright…just on the ceiling.  I can feel the prickling texture of the drywall at the bottoms of my bare feet.

It’s so very strange, where am I?

{You humans are funny creatures,} a voice calls out to me, familiar, I’ve heard it sometime before.  I look behind me, expecting to be sucker punched by another pansy but I see nothing.

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Orange burns through the overcast gray the best it can, only succeeding in small efforts to defeat the coming rain.  Across the four-lane street from an old friends’ house, the suns’ last grip on the daylight hours cause my eyes to strain.  The wind is slow and as quiet as the sidewalks are empty.  It’s a ghost town here and an impending sense of dreads takes the forefront of my mind.

All the foot traffic ceases and changes direction before the people come near Manny’s place.  And just like it is some Middle Eastern village in the middle of nowhere, I know something violent is coming.  All the signs are here.  There are no witnesses, no bystanders, even a cops’ cruiser makes a U-Turn at the intersection not twenty yards east of Manny’s small house.

I don’t like this one bit.

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Time inches by in slow motion.  I’m sweating enough to be living in a fever dream and it feels like months since she asked that question.  She’s got a tight grip on my Silver Star, something I was a little too proud of from my stint in Grenada.  I wasn’t even twenty years old, one hell of an idealistic Lance Corporal, a fresh face in Force Reconnaissance and looking to make a name for myself.  Goddamn, I should have died then, just like so many other days.

“Did you?”  She repeats, even though my silence is answer enough, she wants me to say it.  Hell I wouldn’t doubt she wants me to deny it.

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I hand the driver a twenty.  In my slowest, most unbroken English I can manage, he understands my request to wait.  The moment I step from the cab, I take in the deepest breath I think I ever have, for a second I’m actually light headed.

The putrid body odor several paces behind me, my nostrils are definitely thankful.  My heart rate hasn’t taken the chance to calm.  I’m still shaking.  I can feel the blood running through every artery.

I’m not angry.

For the first time all night, I’m not angry.  I’m not numb.

I’m excited.

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I hate hospitals.  The sterile smell of the halls, the soft colors on the walls, I’ve been to too many in my life time and there are too many memories attached to them.  None of it matters right now; I think my brain is entirely numb to anything except the anger.  Cops said this was a mugging, but what kind of mugger leaves behind an envelope of cash after shooting a man?

“Frenchie, what the hell were you doing with that money?”

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The clatter and commotion of the early morning routine has my head ringing.  Scores of people pass me on the sluggish trek to my office; a lazy hand gesture is all the energy I can muster.  I step foot into my office and a rush of fresh coffee invades my nostrils, forcing me awake for a mere second or two.

My eyes close with my head resting against the back of my chair.  Everything is quiet and the peace of the moment, if just what the doctor ordered.  The only sound I try to ignore is the sound of the fans inside the computer, nothing of consequence.

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My mind is a wreck.  I haven’t slept in two days, and not even the boredom of a cross country flight was enough to lull me.  I hear Seattle is a nice place, I think I’ve been there a few times in my life, but at the moment I’m not too sure on much beyond the present.

Frenchie arranged for everything, as usual he’s the one friend I can count on that will never lose his level head, always watching out for me.  Sometimes I’m not sure how he does it, other times I don’t bother to ask, but the two of us are like that.  Either one will do anything for the other at the drop of a hat, we’ve saved each other countless times and continue to do so everyday.

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The trio of cops groaned, and watched as their new team leader bolted across an open field with tiny explosions kicking up the grass all around him.  He sprint until every muscle in his legs screamed to make him stop, his lungs were about to burst when he saw Prodic’s body and he skidded across the wet grass and scrambled to check if he were all right.  Nearly lifeless eyes shuttered open and a smile tried to form on his lips.  He tried to speak, but only dribbled blood instead.

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